


Take My Soul and Sew it Shut

by sallysorrell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Parentlock, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Tragedy, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:37:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>("Perhaps it would be best for you to wait outside, Dr Watson," the words of a nurse echoed through the door. Sherlock nodded, and looked for John. His shadow inched under the door, fuzzy against the bleached tiles. "Please," mumbled Sherlock. The words did not want to be heard, but needed to be expressed beyond thought.)<br/>Set to alternate between crazy-angst and sickly-sweet fluff.  Can be read with or without the Johnlock (just like the series) and is canon compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_A woman stumbled through the door, and slumped to the stairs outside. Her hands scanned vainly over her body, trying to find the pain, conceal it, and heal herself. There was one inevitable remedy._

_"John!"_ her words were clearly played across her lips, despite the silent video-recording. Mycroft watched and slid his mobile from his pocket. He composed the following message:

Sherlock,  
It's happening. Don't be late.  
MH

_John joined her, and clung desperately to her hands. He helped her to stand, and she leaned against him for balance. They did not notice the rain or the lightning flickering around them. John promised to find a cab, but this was difficult to do without abandoning her. He would not do that, ever._

Where?  
SH

Bart's, I imagine.  
You're going to owe me several thousand favours. All of them pounds.  
MH

_A car, sleek and black, approached the struggling couple. John glanced upward, relieved and thankful. He sighed before dragging open the heavy door, and helping his wife inside. The car, boasting wood and lovely leather trim, was not prepared for this task. It lumbered along beneath the added weight. The driver rolled up all of the windows._

Did you send a car?  
SH

Of course I did. You'll be cleaning it.  
MH

_The cameras followed the car and the couple. The noise, thankfully, was not recorded or replayed._

_Mary's screaming was terrible, and chilled the blood of John and the driver. John kept a hand over her wrist, and encouraged her breathing. The blood on the seats concerned him greatly, but he did not want to worry her._

_The hospital appeared from behind a cloud of appropriately dismal fog. As the car stopped, John considered everything that could go wrong._

_"Is it…" began Mary, buying each breath, "Am I… are we… okay? Will we be okay, John?"_

_He studied her tone, her presence, and her blood. His nod was slow and unconvincing. He was defined by loyalty, and thus, a very bad liar._

_The driver opened the door for them, determined not to comment on the state of his employer's car._

Called a cab for you. Ready?  
MH

Always. I will meet you there.  
SH

Heavens, no. Rather busy…  
MH

_Sherlock paced outside of the Baker Street flat, and was startled when the cab approached him. The situation had occupied every room in his mind. Noting their route was not a sufficient distraction; he had to look at many of the street-signs multiple times. He shook his head and could not discern his location or direction of travel._

_By the time he arrived at the hospital, John and Mary were already inside. He did not know what to say, in order to meet them. Something told him the word 'emergency' was far more effective than 'he's my friend.'_

_The nurses did not agree; he was confined to the lobby._

They won't let me in.  
SH

You don't want to go in.  
MH

_Sherlock rolled his eyes, focusing on the camera that watched him through the hospital window. It shifted briefly from side to side; Mycroft's way of indicating he was watching and waving._

_He shoved past the nurses and stood outside the proper door, guided there by Mary's scheduled screams, and John's insistence that he was a doctor, and genuinely wanted to help._

_Sherlock stood outside and leaned his forehead against the small slot of sterile glass. This was somewhat above his usual eye-level, aiming for constant privacy. There was no way for John's eyes to meet Sherlock's._

_They did not try; John stomped around the room, offering instruction until the working doctors became annoyed. He was provided a cup of tea, but would not drink it._

_"Perhaps it would be best for you to wait outside, Dr Watson," the words of a nurse echoed through the door. Sherlock nodded, and looked for John. His shadow inched under the door, fuzzy against the bleached tiles._

_"Please," mumbled Sherlock. The words did not want to be heard, but needed to be expressed beyond thought._

Are you there?  
MH

Something's wrong. Tell me what's wrong.  
SH

How would I know?  
MH

Find out.  
SH

The things I do for you…  
MH

_John had to be escorted from the room, by the same nurse._

Mycroft consulted every resource he had. Anthea set a medical journal on his desk, open and highlighted, while she was on hold with the hospital front desk.

_"Sherlock?"_

_John made no sound. His lips were dry and stuck open. His eyes were dim and exhausted of energy and emotion. His breaths were shaky and sudden._

_Sherlock stared at him, and reached for his arm. John allowed him to take it. He would allow any distraction._

"Yes, thank you," Mycroft's voice was synthetically sweet, as he set down his desk phone and reached instead for his mobile. There were precisely fourteen new messages from Sherlock, which he did not have time to read.

Is John with you?  
MH

Yes.  
SH

They'll be bringing him back into the room in a moment (you're welcome.)  
He has a terrible choice to make. I would recommend silence, Sherlock.  
MH

_The nurse put her hand on John's shoulder, and motioned toward the door. Mary's shrill moans had subsided, and her breathing was enforced by an army of machines. Sherlock was not permitted entry._

_"No!" John's voice was thickened by tears, "Haven't you tried –?"_

_"We've tried everything, Dr Watson."_

_"But she… I know that she—"_

Mycroft stared at the phones on his desk. Absently, he adjusted the camera which faced the hospital. Sherlock was no longer in its range.

Tell me what's happening.  
SH

Wait.  
MH

_Sherlock's entire body covered the door, and he focused his hearing._

_"We can do the Caesarean section, under emergency conditions. We may be able to save your wife and the baby, if we start right away."_

_John did not hear the words. He watched the nurse's lips, while his heart circled his wife's. The baby…_

The baby.  
SH

_Sherlock did not know what possessed him to type the words. He did not send them to anyone. He just read them and tried to find a place for them in his stores of memory._

_John did not do this. He moved toward Mary, and his hand found hers, beneath tubes and wires and blankets and fluids. Weakly, their fingers intertwined. He looked for reassurance in her eyes, but they were shut._

_"Mary," he said, and her eyes struggled to open obediently, "No, you don't need to look at me, it's alright. Only… I love you, Mary, and you'll be okay, I promise. We'll all be… fine."_

_"Hamish," she began, indicating the forthcoming baby. John leaned closer._

_"We need to start the operation immediately, Dr Watson," the nurse proceeded, grasping his shoulder once more. He was dragged through the door, and thrown at Sherlock._

_"Mary!" he called, vainly. The gentle lights were replaced with harsh, surgical ones, refracted from metal tools. The slot in the door was forced shut._

_He and Sherlock stared at each other. Neither spoke. Consolation was a lie, and empathy doubly so._

Mycroft saw them on his screen, as they paced in the corridor, beginning in opposite directions so they would not catch each other's gaze by accident.

The nurse reappeared, and Mycroft zoomed-in on her. He watched her face.

_"I'm sorry, Dr Watson," she said, "We did everything we could."_


	2. His Last Vow

The nurse remained silent, while John's head rolled backward. His eyes were shut, and his lips trembled.

"The baby, though," she began. He shoved her hand from his shoulder, "He's in stable condition."

John's breaths quickened.

"C-Can I see him?"

"He'll need to stay overnight, at least. They're watching for Apnea, now."

"Right," John said, "Is, um, is he okay, other than that?"

"Yes, Dr. Watson," she shuffled away, "The breathing problems were only caused by the complications during labour."

He nodded. His mouth opened to form 'Mary' – a question, judging by his brows – but he stayed quiet. The nurse smiled at him before walking away.

John looked up at me, and tried to say 'Mary' again.

"You've, uh," I began, "kept your promise, alright."

"What?"

"'Until death do us part,'" I recited. I was trying to be sentimental and comforting. His face did not make the expression I hoped for:

Rapidly, John shook his head. His pupils dilated, and his eyes filled with tears. Annoyingly, he clenched his teeth until his face was pale. He twisted his fingers and his hands shook.

"Not good, Sherlock," he spat, "That _isn't good_. Dammit, that is _so far from good_. Are you listening to what you're saying? Do you hear the words that are coming out of your bloody mouth right now!?"

He increased his volume, which I only knew because I _felt_ the reverberations. He threw his arms over my shoulders, leaned up, and buried his face in my coat. The smoke which nested there, I'm sure, quickened his tears.

"Don't you _ever_ say anything like that again," John strained to see my face. I tried to make this easier by taking a step backward. He didn't like this; he had apparently placed all of his faith and balance in me.

"I'm… sorry."

"I know you are, but y-you… "

He rubbed his hand over his forehead and shut his eyes.

"Would it be better if I left?"

"Yes—"

I turned to leave. His fingernails grazed my shoulder:

"But don't."

Most of my time with John Watson was spent observing and correcting his grief. I offered stability to his competing emotions, while uncovering the lies he told himself.

The first of these, this time around, involved Mary.

"I should've been there," he found a chair in the lobby and claimed it. I followed, "I could've saved her."

"No," I chose to omit 'you're not _that_ good', even though it was my foremost thought. That was, probably, on the list of things John didn't want me to say again. Or ever.

He continued crying, so I offered him my scarf. Isn't that what 'normal' people do?

Confirmation: yes. John accepted it and covered his face with it, then wiped his eyes.

I sat beside him. He looked briefly at me, then back into the fabric.

"What did you name _the_ baby?" I asked, hesitant of the words. He told me the answer, months ago, as soon as its sex was determined. I had not forgotten.

"Hamish," he did not want to say it. He took frequent breaths and avoided it for as long as possible.

I nodded.

"Are you sure you want me to stay?"

He was not; he said nothing. I stayed anyway.

The nurse reappeared at regular intervals, informing us of Hamish's progress. She also told us when her shift was scheduled to end, and introduced us to her replacement. John was resistant to all changes, when at this stage of his grief. This was the limp, too fake to be forgotten about.

If the nurse was the limp, Hamish was the cane; John leaned on it at once, desperate for comfort.

The new nurse brought us to the baby, after John's insistence they admit me. My surroundings told me nothing. Everything was bright and sterilized. I had no knowledge of the machinery.

Hamish was asleep in a bed – crib? – covered with glass. There were holes on both sides, stuffed with tubes. John stared at him and the tears slowed.

The baby did not give much information, either, but I copied John and looked.

His face was welcomingly symmetrical, and his eyes suggested the shape of John's. They would carry the colour, too. His face was red and taped over with tubes. His breathing was not yet normal; a machine beeped and a nurse rushed in to confirm this. We were shoved aside.

John looked down the hall, in the direction of Mary's room. This reminded me to send a text:

I'll be in tomorrow morning.

Don't bother with the coffee.

SH

As always, the reply was instant and overeager:

Sure. Whenever you want.

Molly

I would not specify the body, vocally or over text. John would not want to know.

We returned to the chairs in the lobby, while John remarked about _every_ feature Hamish shared with Mary. Once he reached the end of this list, he repeated those most obvious. I did not have an answer for this; Hamish looked, undeniably, a good deal more like John. This idea would embarrass him.

He did not look at me for the rest of the night. He did not sleep, either.

He kept his head in his hands, and leaned all of his weight forward. His hands grew cold and pale because of this.

 _Cold_ because his fingers brushed over onto my side of the armrest, and tapped nervously against my arm. When I moved away, he would sigh and stop.

I learned not to move away, even though the tapping was annoying.

When the replacement nurse brought news of Hamish, she also brought two cups of tea. I let John finish mine.

"He'll be fine to go home in the morning, Dr Watson."

"Home," John said, relieved. I'm sure he expected to find Mary there, based on the temporary lightness of his voice. He seemed confused, at this point.

I did not suggest blogging about the baby, even though that was his original plan. Mostly to stop the rumours he hated so much.

John looked at his watch, then covered his eyes with his hands. He continued holding my scarf, which was still damp.

This was typical. He had kept my scarf last time. After my 'death.' He would look at it every day, and it never moved from the hook on the closet-door. Until, of course, John moved in with Mary. The scarf moved, too, to a new closet. It suggested familiarity and _home_.

"Home," John said again, unwillingly drifting to sleep.

He would stumble off home, with a baby that reminded him too much of Mary, and no assistance. He would wait for Mary at the base of the stairs, like the dog many defined him as, and she would never come.

Who would help him?

Me, obviously. Once I'd been to see Mary.


	3. My First Vow

One of the perks to working without Sherlock was working _with_ Molly.

Of course, we were all glad to see him back, but it stalled things a bit at first. For example, he didn't like when Molly made me coffee. He would list his reasons for this being not 'cute' – the word was hard for him to find – until Molly would get embarrassed and go hide elsewhere.

Molly handed me my mug of coffee, and looked at her phone.

"Sherlock's coming in," she confirmed. I sighed, but nodded. We'd be finishing the coffee quickly, then. No chatting.

"About Mary?"

"Yeah… poor John."

"Yeah."

Sherlock had texted her, somewhat blatantly, about needing to see 'Mary' immediately. From there, we had to work backwards and find out that he meant John's wife, and that she was dead. Very kind of him to let us know.

Molly waited for me to finish my coffee before we left for the examination room. She started to say something, but caught herself.

Sherlock was there already, pacing around the empty table.

"Uhm, hey," said Molly. She coughed, and Sherlock looked up.

"Just need to confirm a few things," he began, not even facing her, "I can't imagine anyone wanting to kill her, but I need to be sure."

"How's John doing?" Molly asked.

"Left hospital a couple of hours ago. I sent Mrs Hudson over to check on him."

"That's good," I said, stepping forward. He turned, sharply.

"Lestrade, why are you here? You hardly ever look at the bodies."

"I dabble," I began. Several weeks ago, after a similar exchange, I made a remark about the _living_ bodies in the room, but it didn't go over well; Molly left.

"Oh, I _see_ ," Sherlock continued, back still turned, "Carry on, Molly."

I rolled my eyes. Molly led us to Mary, and unrolled the sheet from over her. I wasn't interested in seeing her, so I decided not to watch Sherlock, as he considered his tools.

"She was nice," Molly told me. We retreated a few steps and looked at each other instead.

"Yeah," I said again, "Shame."

I couldn't think of anything to say, so we leaned in and listened to Sherlock. He muttered to himself, mostly, and rustled the sheet. He was quick with his work:

"Thank you," Sherlock announced, stepping toward us. He put away the tools as he walked.

"Natural causes," said Molly. Sherlock considered this an invitation.

"She _may_ have been poisoned," Sherlock spoke quickly, "Although not intentionally. I'll need to speak to the doctors who performed the operation."

"They didn't do the stitches," Molly was quiet, "She was, um, still cut open when she got here. We just did those for the funeral."

Sherlock nodded. The silence became his opportunity to study us. I always felt nervous, watching his eyes flash about like that. He blinked as he spoke:

"You're about five years late," he said to me. I tossed my head to the side:

"Can we not talk about this now?"

"I didn't say _what_ y—"

"Don't be like that; I _know_ you know. Can you just –?"

Molly glanced between us, allowing us several seconds each.

"Coffee?" she offered. Sherlock did not stop, although today he seemed angry, rather than smug:

"I'm surprised she didn't take the news well – it benefits her more than you – unless you've finally managed to find someone else. She must've scraped your arms up pretty badly, since your sleeves are rolled all the way down. And buttoned! Good you decided to tell her this morning, rather than last night, as she did such a nice job ironing that shirt for you. Got some sleep, as well… three hours?" He titled his head and waited for my approval. I stared and was silent, "Enough to go to work on, since Donovan won't turn you in for it. I expected you to do _much_ worse."

I rolled my eyes. Molly watched me.

"Good morning," he called, turning and leaving. The deduction seemed to calm him, slightly, as he walked away with both hands in his coat-pockets.

Molly led me back to the kitchen, where we refreshed our coffee cups.

"So you're…" she played with the spoon in the jar of sugar, "getting a divorce, then?"

I nodded, face mostly covered by the mug. I tried not to see her through the steam.

"That's good," she shook her head, "I didn't mean like _that,_ but it's good for you to do what makes you happy, and if that's what makes you happy, you should definitely go and… I'm sorry."

"It's fine," I said, "Dunno why it took me so long, though. He was right about that."

"Yeah," she agreed, giggling slightly, "It _has_ been awhile. Were you… gonna tell me, or—?"

"Why would I— _oh_. Yeah, 'course I would."

She nodded and set down the spoon, finally, before resetting the jar on the table.

"I _promise_ I would've told you," I said again.

"I believe you."

My phone buzzed. I ignored it.

"Finally doing it," the words were mostly for my own reassurance, "Getting divorced and staying that way."

"Oh," said Molly, sadly, "Whatever makes you happy."

She stepped from the room, and I rested my head in my hands. Not what I meant at all. I decided to check my phone:

You DID find someone else.  
SH


	4. A Crib and a Coffin

Mycroft _always_ waited until the fourth ring to answer my calls.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock," his voice was irritating, and I could easily picture his expression. Just as bad; lips folded, teeth bared, and brows raised in waiting. His eyes would be narrow, since he was facing the window. He _sounded_ like he was squinting. Horrible habit.

"I've a shopping list for you."

"Oh _goody_. How _do_ you manage to go over your budget so often, Sherlock? That _really_ isn't responsible."

I ended the call and slouched in my armchair. If I texted him, I could ignore his lectures:

1 crib  
1 coffin  
SH

He called back, within a fraction of a second:

"Those are two things you are _perfectly_ capable of buying for yourself."

"They're for John."

"Yes, I gathered that." I _felt_ him smiling, and squeezed the phone in my anger.

" _Mycroft_." His name is perfectly suited to saying through clenched teeth.

This time, he hung up the phone. I listened to the beeping for a moment, and considered the correct words to send to John:

How are you feeling?  
S

He didn't answer this. I sifted through all the texts he'd sent my phone, with the notion I was dead and would never answer. I'd saved them in a special, disgustingly sentimental folder, and based my work on them:

Has Mrs Hudson been by? She's made trifle for you.  
S

I will come and see you this afternoon.  
S

I promise.  
S

Don't forget to eat.  
You used to tell me that, and it helped.  
S

Get some sleep, too, if possible.  
S

I will come by as soon as I can.  
S

I would go to John's flat after interviewing the doctors and nurses. I found a taxi outside, and was driven there.

The woman behind the front desk seemed to remember me. I did not use the word 'emergency'; this was substituted for one of Lestrade's cards.

She was quick in showing me to an empty suite, and promised to assemble whichever doctors were still working. I asked her to write down their names, first:

_Dr Roma_

_Dr Ellis_

_Nurse Connor_

_Nurse Jameson_

_Nurse Gillian, Anesthesiologist_

None were familiar to me, although I'm sure Molly or Stamford introduced me to everyone there at one point or another.

The staff assembled before me, and all took turns shaking my hand. I stopped with Nurse Connor's hand, and held it up.

She wore a wedding band. These, I find, tell the most about people.

"You wore that yesterday, in the surgery," I told her.

"I would've taken it off," her voice was troubled, "but it was an emergency."

The receptionist glanced between us, rolling her eyes at the word.

I asked the nurse to remove her ring; she refused.

"Although you _did_ scrub-up before entering the surgery, you neglected to wear gloves."

Both doctors disapproved, but tried to defend her. I waved them off, and went to speak with the Anesthesiologist.

"How long have you worked here, Ms Gillian?"

"Twelve years in March," she said.

"How did you administer the anesthesia to Ms… Mrs _Watson_?"

"She was having trouble breathing, so we only used an intravenous solution. I am sure the dosage was correct."

Sufficient…

I looked at both doctors, and asked why John was not allowed to stay in the room.

They both agreed he was hysterical, and his instructions confused the nurses. Anyway, the room and all inhabitants were expected to be cleaned and dressed for surgery.

"And yet, Ms Connor was permitted to wear her wedding ring, harboring millions of antibiotic-resistant bacteria, without _gloves_?"

"Mr Holmes!" she began, stepping forward.

"Thank you," I said. I had gathered more than enough information, and needed to see John. I promised.

* * *

Mrs Hudson opened the door at John's flat. She patted my shoulder; we hugged.

"He's been in a bad way all afternoon," she explained, "People won't stop phoning, and Hamish – poor dear – won't stay asleep. I thought about taking him back to hospital, but John insists he's okay… and he'd know best, wouldn't he?"

"I should hope."

She led me down the hall. John's flat had always made me uncomfortable; where I expected to see my things, I would find Mary's. I would look for the skull, and find a vase of roses. In place of my violin was a scarf, partially knitted. Instead of my board full of formulas, there were framed wedding pictures, and a calendar of painted horses. The dates they circled meant nothing to me. The names, the reminders of birthdays and addresses, the cards and photographs, the fraying theatre-tickets…

"Got your texts," John offered, "Thanks."

His eyes were hollow. He did not try to stand up.

He sat facing the window, on a couch littered with newspapers, jumpers, and a dozen rejected meals.

"Tell Mycroft 'thanks', as well, would you?"

He gestured weakly at the window. Beneath it, enjoying the sun, was Hamish. He seemed safe enough in the crib.

"He said he's, um… he's got the… the funeral covered, as well."

"Mycroft came to see you?"

Typical; he spoke more to John than to me. This was not a complaint.

"Just for a minute. Left when Hamish started crying again."

I nodded, and sat on the chair across from him. Mrs Hudson padded about the kitchen, considering all the things she could do to help. Bless her.

John's phone, waiting on the coffee-table, rang sharply. He reached to silence it, looking at his wedding ring. How tragic, for it to be on the hand he depended on. He would see it too often.

"How's _the_ baby?" I asked. Mrs Hudson stood behind my chair; I felt her breath near my shoulder. I wanted to reach for my violin, but stopped myself when I recalled the strange environment.

John's voice was still too quiet, but his usual tone resurfaced:

" _Hamish_ is fine. He's breathing much better."

"That's… good."

"Where were you this morning?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It does to _me_."

I took my mobile from my coat-pocket.

"I had to speak with Mycroft."

I hated how often John demanded lies from me. He would shelter himself in them, and I would watch and shake my head. There was nothing I could do, except continue telling them.

John says thank you.  
SH

Do you?  
MH

I don't understand.  
SH

Never mind. See you soon.  
MH

Oh goody.  
SH


	5. A Bed and a Body-Bag

Donovan got word of the case first, and was anxious to present it to me. She walked in, tucking her phone into her pocket, and handing me a printed statement.

"I don't understand how that's supposed to be a murder," I sighed, when I was done reading her list of theories. I sipped my coffee. It was bitter, because Molly hadn't made it.

"Well, we'll give the Freak some exercise," she said, disdainfully, "I'm not gonna phone him."

"Thought you and Anderson got on well."

She rolled her eyes:

"You're hilarious." She snatched the page from my hands, "Anderson's there already."

I agreed to contact Sherlock, and meet the rest of the group at the scene. First, I wanted to call Molly. The facts seemed to fit her work. Hopefully.

"Molly?" I stood to shut my office door, to save myself from Donovan, giggling in the hallway.

"Oh… hey, Greg!" she sounded at least ten times more awake than I did, "What do you need?"

"Would you mind meeting me at a crime scene? We could really use your help…"

"Yeah, okay."

I realized what a terrible excuse for a date this was. Not that it was a date. I coughed.

"I'll, er, text the address. I'm heading over there now."

"See you soon."

As I started to say 'goodbye', she hung up the phone. I typed the address and sent it to her.

A car waited for me outside. I stepped in and called Sherlock, hoping he was available and awake. It was still rather early, and the death was reported overnight.

"Lestrade," he sighed into the speaker.

"'The game is on,'" he was fond of this phrase, for some reason. I always felt ridiculous using it.

"Where?"

"Harley Street. Will you come?"

"Send a car," it amazed me, his ability to give constant orders, "I'm at John's flat."

The call ended, so I requested a car. I'd learned John's address, over the past few years of solemn visits and occasional walks to the pub. He hated doing cases with me, but needed someone to talk to, every so often. It was good he had Sherlock, this time around. I'd never understand him so well.

Molly had beaten me there. The street was dark and quiet, but the flat was lit by harsh, artificial lights, and buzzing with police personnel. Anderson was labelling evidence, while Donovan patrolled the perimeter. Molly was confined to a corner, and stared at the body on the bed. Another woman was nearby, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

"Morning," I said to Molly. She waved. Anderson looked up at us, and stood over the body.

"You don't need to hire any help for me," he said, "I _do_ know what I'm doing."

Before I could respond, his radio buzzed: "Freak's here."

I reached for mine and turned up the volume, in time to hear "with his date."

"That's enough," I said. I tried not to look at Molly.

They arrived in the room; John, Sherlock, and Donovan. Anderson shrugged and moved away from his work, leaving Sherlock to examine it and list his mistakes.

"Summarise." Sherlock's voice was quiet, as he felt the fabric of the man's shirt.

"Flight Lieutenant Kelley Davies, honourably discharged from the R.A.F. two months ago…"

"Yes," said Sherlock, "I can see that."

John had moved cautiously over to Molly and the crying woman, who introduced herself as Kelley's fiancée. Sherlock glanced up at them, briefly, then back at the pilot.

He tapped Kelley's fingers, comparing those on the flesh arm to those on the prosthetic one. This was, Sherlock said, 'obviously' the reason for his discharge.

"When was the wedding?" prompted Sherlock, looking at the ring on Kelley's finger. He always seemed fascinated by such jewellery. I imagine the tradition confused him.

His fiancée stepped forward, glancing between Molly and Sherlock.

"We were _engaged_."

"Yes," Sherlock said, turning sharply, "When I use 'was', I mean in the sense that your fiancé is dead, not that you've already been married. The date, please. I know you've set one."

"New Year's Day," her voice was broken, "That's when we met, six years ago."

He apologised, thanked her, then struggled to take the band off of Kelley's finger. Anderson's eyes widened, as a deep cut was uncovered. He knelt beside Sherlock; they glared at one another.

"I don't want to hear from you, Anderson, if you've missed this the first time 'round. Molly, how kind of you to come along. If you wouldn't mind…"

She pulled on some gloves, kept in her lab-coat pockets, before turning the hand over. The cut continued around most of his finger, but remained beneath the metal ring. The skin was patchy and discoloured. Sherlock held onto the ring, and stole a swab from Anderson's kit, in order to clean the inner side. The finished swab was sealed into a bag, and stuffed into his coat.

I heard John chatting to the fiancée, Diane; both were made uncomfortable by Molly's absence. I stepped toward them, and reached to shake hands. I introduced myself to Diane, then patted John once on the shoulder. It had been about a week since Mary's funeral, and thus, two since her death.

"You alright, Mate?"

"Will be," he nodded, "Everyone's been really great."

"Sherlock said you've brought the baby home already. Hamish, was it?"

"Yeah, he's… he's fantastic. Mrs Hudson's with him today."

Donovan watched us, unsure of our conversation. Diane was quiet.

"Look, I'm sorry if Sherlock dragged you along," I said, "But I'm sure he's trying to help."

"No worries," John lifted his head. His lips were crooked, caught between a smile and a frown, "I needed a distraction."

"Good man," I said, patting his arm again, "Let me know if you could use my help, alright?"

"Will do."

I turned toward Diane, to confirm a few details. Each one seemed to sting John, until he took a heavy breath and nearly fell through the bedroom door. I heard him retreating, and slamming the front door of the house.

Sherlock stood, impossibly offended, and stared down at Diane:

"Repeat your words, exactly. Everything you just said, precisely as you said it."

She did so, with added tears and uncertain pauses:

"I was so scared I'd need to raise the baby alone… he was deployed before either of us knew. When they called a few weeks after, I thought he'd died… that's the only reason they call, nowadays. But they said he was coming home, mostly in one piece. I didn't even notice his arm; he thought I was just being nice, but I really didn't notice. I just waited for him to get off the plane, and I held him and didn't let go. He was so great about it, when I told him about the baby. He was so understanding, and he proposed the next day… he promised I wouldn't be alone, and—"

"Stop," said Sherlock, "Describe his injury."

"He was shot twice, just below his shoulder. Lost a lot of blood, he said. Luckily, they had the…I don't know, the nerves and everything to do the prosthetic. It was all put on when he got home, but he went to therapy appointments for it a lot. What's that got to do with—?"

"Shh."

Sherlock looked her over, muttered something to himself about the baby's due date, and stood. He rushed out, only slightly less frantically than John had done.

Molly frowned as she watched him go. She shuffled over to me, and let Anderson take her place beside the body. Kelley's hand dangled over the edge of the bed.

She peeled off the gloves, and replaced them in her pockets. I found it odd, but perfectly fitting, that she kept the left glove in the right pocket, and the right glove in the left pocket. She leaned over, and spoke into my shoulder:

"Sherlock thinks it was murder."

"'Course he does. What do _you_ think?"

"Oh…" she paused and looked up at me, "It's a staph infection, not treated properly. Or at all, maybe."

"From the cut on his finger?"

"That's where it started. Could've spread… I can look, back at the morgue."

I called for Donovan and Anderson to pack up their evidence, and prepare to move the body.

"If I could," I told her, as we stepped outside, "I'd give you a promotion."

She smiled, then recalled she was at a crime-scene.

"Don't worry about it," I said. I opened the door of my car, and sat down beside her.

We were driven to the Yard, making far too many jokes about Anderson, then comparing concern for John and Sherlock.


	6. Deleting a Blog

By the time I stepped out of the cab, John was home already. He'd turned on all the lights, but shut all the windows. The door was closed but unlocked, so I entered.

I switched off every light I passed. John had done this in anger or frustration, without considering his diminishing income and looming expenses. I would not remind him of this. Yet.

Mrs Hudson was not inside.

"Sent her home," John said, when I asked him. He was sitting on the couch and feeding Hamish from a bottle, which Mrs Hudson had obviously prepared.

"I'm sorry," I offered, "for making you come with me."

He shook his head. Hamish squirmed, until his… _father_ rubbed his back.

I've used the word 'Father' in many strange ways, but was conflicted about applying it to John. 'Father' is a bond that exists regardless of distance, feeling, or death. If I used it, I accepted the change and the duty it bound him to. I would avoid it, vocally, for as long as possible.

"Lestrade didn't tell me anything about the victim, or I would've d—"

"I know," sighed John, "It's fine."

His laptop was open, sitting beside him on the couch. I considered this, and selected my usual armchair. The half-finished scarf was gone.

"I can… hold him, if you'd like."

In the two weeks without Mary, Mrs Hudson and I had practically taken shifts at the flat. I had not yet held the baby.

"I'm sure you can," John smirked, just for a moment, "Careful."

"Of course."

I stood and collected the baby. John was cautious and gentle in readjusting him, and checked at least a dozen times to make sure my arms were 'right.' I was quiet in accepting criticism and correction, which I hope he appreciated.

John returned to his seat, scooped up the laptop, and tapped the keys.

"There's no need to research the bacterium," I said, "I took a sample of it for my own experiments."

I wanted to sit down, but was afraid of ruining Hamish's position. He was awake, but quiet. I tried to rub his back like his _father_ would.

John continued typing, sighing frequently. I spoke between his breaths:

"You believe that's what killed Mary."

He did not look up at me. His words came harshly through his teeth:

"I don't wanna talk about it, Sherlock."

That was acceptable; I would continue thinking about it. The silence was conducive.

"I'm going shopping," I said, having compiled the list for my experiment, "What do you need?"

"You don't have to do that," John rubbed his face, "Just a _sorry_ 's fine."

"Sorry."

"Well, too late now."

Each website added to the clouds in his eyes. My experiment, if it went as planned, would offer appropriate relief. Until then, I needed to provide a distraction. When I first met John, the distraction was crime-scenes. Those were no longer sufficient.

I shuffled toward him, and hovered over his research. Hamish made a strange coughing noise, but stopped when John reached for him. I took the laptop, instead. He had just opened the blog, and was adjusting the settings.

"Stamford wanted pictures," I reminded him. Stamford's comments were frequent, and always concerned with Hamish. This is mostly what he said at the funeral, too, when we last saw him.

"Yeah, I've got some on my mobile."

"I can post them on the blog, if y—"

"I'm gonna delete it, actually." He nodded, to reassure himself.

"Why?"

"I don't…" he stopped to consider the correct word. Even as he said it, he didn't seem satisfied, "I don't _need_ it anymore. And you've got your site, if someone other than Lestrade wants to talk to you."

"Wants to talk to _us_."

"Right."

Hamish was set in his crib beside the window. He disapproved with a whine. John shrugged and stood over him, somewhat helplessly. Hamish gave up on the whining, and fell asleep before he could cry any louder.

John sat beside me, leaning over the laptop. I passed it to him, and watched him change the privacy settings. I am consistently unimpressed by his technological capabilities; I was unsure if he thought this would delete the blog, or if he knew it would only hide it from unregistered users. I would not explain the difference.

"I'll come back tomorrow," I told him, when he closed the web-page.

"Sure," he said, "Thanks."

"Are you _sure_ you don't need anything?"

"I think Mrs Hudson's got me caught up on food at the moment, thanks. Bakes something every time she comes over."

I nodded and saw myself out, leaving John staring at his son. That was a strange word for me to use, too. I heard him folding shut the laptop, and standing up again.

* * *

My shopping trip was short and, as always, uncomfortable. Too many idiots, of course, but also way too much information to sort through. I had no time to focus on any of it.

I shoved some papers off of the kitchen counter back at Baker Street, and set out the eggs, flour, yeast, and two plastic ashtrays – the only set I could find, reading 'His' and 'Hers' respectively. From the dishwasher, I took several of my larger petri dishes, and lined them up beneath the light.

I pulled the swab from its bag in my pocket, and set it down in the _His_ ashtray. I made a terrible mess of cracking the eggs and separating them into yolks and whites. The yolks were poured into both ashtrays. _His_ sat in the light with the collected bacterium; _Hers_ was used as a control sample, for harvesting the yeast.

Then, I went and made a mess of the bookshelf. The state of the flat was absolutely awful, but beyond my concern when both John and Mrs Hudson were away.

I produced a stack of medical journals – mostly stolen from John – to confirm the identity of the colony:

_Staphylococcus epidermidis._

I consulted my laptop to record several details about the experiment, and then went to visit John's 'deleted' blog.

The password, of course, was 'Mary'. I heard him type it enough. His keystrokes were always slow and heavy, and the pitch of each key was easy to distinguish. Anyway, _sentiment_. Sometimes he would cry while typing it. The 'L' key was discoloured from this, and warped. He would lean his head on his dominant hand – cutting in with the wedding ring – and the tears would fall freely from the other side.

* * *

[16th June]

**Untitled**

He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.

[Comments disabled]

* * *

John taught me that – like 'Father' – 'friend' is an enduring title. Even in death, he called me his friend.

Now was not the time to disappoint a _friend_ or a _father._ I created a new post, and was considerate in composing it.


	7. Removing Lipstick

Molly wasn't sure what to do, once we reached my office. She looked at the walls, mostly, and all the things pinned to them, then at the papers on my desk. I offered her my chair but she would not take it.

"I should be getting back to work," she turned toward the door, mostly closed. She rubbed her mouth, looked at the red smudge on her hand, then stopped to sort through her bag.

I expected her to take out a tube of lipstick and refresh it, but she took out a blotchy little towel and ensured it was thoroughly removed. She looked at me for a moment before leaving. I imagine she wanted my approval, in place of a mirror's. I sat down behind the desk.

"I liked it the way it was," I began, then recalled the reaction this usually got from my wife. Ex-wife. "But it's fine like that, too… whatever you like."

"Thanks," she giggled, "I try not to stand out much, unless I'm going out. Not 'going out' going out, but… not at work. I guess for dates, too, but that wasn't really a date, so I..." she took a shaky breath, "I don't wanna be late. I'll… see you later?"

"'Course."

I couldn't define the last three years better if I tried…

We'd never been on a proper date. I hardly had time for my wife – she's probably right about that one – so how could I balance an affair?

Molly was always more than willing to work with me on cases, in Sherlock's absence. It started with her comparing all of our actions to his. First, sadly, then as an eager student. She never claimed to be as quick or as thorough, but she did save me rather a lot of time and trouble. I'd call her an 'angel', but not to her face.

Donovan did that once, sarcastically. She's got a name for everyone, and Molly's came about when we were sharing a cuppa and laughing at an old video of Sherlock; the one where me and John had to drag him up the stairs because he could barely walk. Kept babbling on about a woman. A lot like I'm doing… Anyway:

Molly was wearing lipstick then. A lovely, matte one, which settled in the air between us like fresh peaches. She pointed at Sherlock on the screen, tapping it and pausing it by mistake. Her laugh was quiet and apologetic, when Donovan stepped into my office.

"You're an angel," she scoffed and passed me a finished report. Finished, due to Molly's input.

"I can go," she offered, dropping her smile. I paused the video and set down my phone.

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Donovan, "I was heading out, anyways."

Sally left early that day, and many days after. I had no reason to stop her, and she knew it.

This didn't stop me calling Molly. She was at the Yard more often than I was, some weeks. It depended on the case, details, and her schedule. I never complained; walking into my office and meeting her eyes straightaway. She always had something happy to say. Or, she would make it sound happy, if it was a story she brought from work.

"Didn't you hear me?" Donovan's voice dragged me out of my daydream.

She was standing in the doorway, no doubt leaving early for the evening. I shrugged.

"Yeah," I said, "Fine."

She rolled her eyes, took a half-step in, and tossed a shimmery envelope onto my desk.

"That's for the Christmas party," she told me. I guessed there was some insult concerning a date on the way, so I stood and spoke.

"Bit early, innit?" I turned over the envelope and opened it. I set the card on my desk.

"So you've got time to buy a date," she said. I should've expected her to have a back-up plan. "In case you're actually through with the divorce by then. I hope you're not; I like her."

"Alright," I muttered, "Going anywhere special tonight?"

She said nothing, but continued out of the building anyway.

I sighed, sat back down, and sipped some water. I read the card a few times, and tried to think of something better to do.

My phone chimed before I could come up with anything.

Sherlock may be right.  
Call me?  
Molly

I did:

"What'd you find?" I asked her.

"I'm still collecting some samples, but there are strains of bacteria that grow over plastic. Biofilms, they're called. People with catheters have died from it before, and Kelley had the prosthetic arm… maybe the infection moved there from the cut on his finger?"

"But why under the ring?"

"Keeps it hidden, I guess. Anyway, there's a lot of bacteria there. Most people don't wash under 'em."

"That's… great work, Molly. Did you tell Sherlock?"

"Yeah, I texted him, but he hasn't answered yet. I hope he's not—"

"He's fine," I hope I didn't sound jealous. That would be ridiculous, "See you tomorrow?"

"Probably, yeah." She hung up on me.

I put my mobile back in my pocket, and checked my watch. Decent time to go home, since my house was empty. I rather liked it that way.

As I tugged my coat from the back of my chair, my phone chimed again. I had one arm caught in my sleeve, and decided to remove it before answering.

Sorry. Didn't mean to be rude.  
Molly

No worries.  
Thanks again. You're an angel.  
G

I didn't know whether or not I wanted an answer. My face felt hot, so I left my coat draped over my arm, rather than putting it on. I stepped out into the misty evening, and cringed at the text-tone.

:)  
M


	8. A Selfless Offer

I never did respond to Molly's texts. She stopped sending them, after seventeen unsuccessful days.

Biofilms?  
Molly

On the prosthetic, I mean.  
Molly

But why?  
Molly

Any ideas of suspects?  
Molly

I think there's something off with my phone…  
Molly

Are you getting any of my messages?  
Molly

I checked the ashtrays several times a day, between visits to John's. The film grew only over the infected plastic, and not over the control sample. This would be something good to tell John, when I saw him.

Although provided enough time, split between bereavement and paternity allowances, he was not given enough money to sustain both periods. I hated thanking Mycroft, but did not feel the need to; all of his help was indirect, since the funeral. Mrs Hudson – whose rent fee was paid by Mycroft – brought John all of his meals, and I – shrugging and skimming Mycroft's account for my cases – left my wallet at his house twice a week, and pretended not to notice what went missing. I always reminded him to take my card; this did not make him feel as guilty. Anyway, sometimes he would pick up something and insist it was for me. Fair enough.

He said Hamish liked going out shopping. The baby smiled at the strangers, brave enough to hover over him. I never understood this, but nodded when John explained it. Some would ask about his mother, but most – typically those who remembered John and I from the papers – expressed their joy at the accessibility of adoption. John would shrug and leave, to calls about how remarkably alike he and Hamish looked. I assured him this was true, after recounting the many genetic impossibilities of inheriting Mary's features.

Despite the door to the flat being open, Mrs Hudson knocked. When I glanced up from my book, she stepped in. We met in front of the fireplace. She slipped a paper bag around my wrist, and her hand remained there while she spoke:

"Mrs Turner made extra pea soup. Tell John it reheats alright, and there's no herbs or spices, if he wants some for Hamish."

"I will."

She took her hands away. Hamish was, by all averages I was familiar with, not ready for anything beyond his formula and iron-supplements. I would not point this out, but would no longer recommend her help to John. This was the deciding factor in my decision…

When I presented this decision, John shook his head:

"That's really… good of you, but I don't want to be a burden."

"I wouldn't offer, if that was my definition of you."

I sat across from him in the kitchen, sipping tea he insisted on providing, while he helped Hamish hold his bottle. Although the baby seemed capable of feeding himself in this way, he became helpless as soon as John left his side; he preferred attention to achievement. We would get on well.

John kept his hand over the back of the bottle, and fretted about the temperature. As soon as he arrived in the kitchen, he would step back into the sitting area to check it again. He was avoiding the conversation. The creases in his shirt alarmed me. His phone was not in the proper pocket. He had to get somewhere in a hurry, but left his destination at equal speed.

"How was Harry?" I asked.

His lips curled. He did not want to tell me. I continued:

"John," I saw his face, as he re-entered the kitchen, "You'll _never_ need to leave him with Harry."

Quiet frustration played over his face. His veins restrained him, pulsing at his temples.

"I wasn't gonna—I _won't_ leave him with Harry."

"Of course," I said, "Working from home _does_ seem advantageous, but – in Harry's case – it's coupled with a constant hangover. You think she'd know how to fix it by now, but it's always black coffee with amaretto, and mismatched medicines. No place for Hamish, and you know it. You knew before you went to see her."

"You're right," John sighed, staring over at the baby, "Not about Harry, but about everything else."

"I'm right about Harry, as well. And she offered you a cup, which you refused – citing a need to drive home – even though she _saw_ you get out of a cab. Only shows the state she was in. You're making the right decision."

"I know."

"I've already told your landlord," I said quietly. Then, more clearly, "We should pack."

" _We_ should?"

"I said you'd be gone by the weekend, and there's no sense in you doing it yourself."

Simultaneously, he shrugged _and_ nodded. Reluctant acceptance.

I had not moved a single thread or dust-speck from John's room. Although he appreciated the familiarity as much as I did, he questioned my methods. I ignored him, choosing instead to focus on the crib. I wheeled it into the room, and tried to arrange it a reasonable distance from the bed. Hamish could be heard downstairs, trying out a pleasant selection of noises which Mrs Hudson was glad to imitate and encourage.

The crib would not fit comfortably in the room. I volunteered to replace the couch with it, and John gave a disappointed breath; a loud sigh, flaring his nostrils like a cornered bull.

"That's not exactly close to me."

"It's just downstairs. I'm there."

"He's never slept through a whole night," John proceeded, turning and listening for him, "And I don't think you want him crying right outside _your_ door."

"The furniture is a puzzle, John, and that's where this," I gestured at the crib, "piece fits."

He was agreeable while we established the crib and the couch, but not when he looked more thoroughly about the room.

"No, those are going in the bin."

He caught sight of a packet of cigarettes, poorly hidden on the bookshelf. Usually, they were stashed in a hollow dictionary, but I left in a rush that morning. Mrs Hudson stopped moving them when she cleaned.

"That's the only pack," I said.

"Is it, really?"

"Yes."

John took them and disposed of them. I did not offer protest, or stories about how they became my only warmth, camouflage, and consolation while I chased snipers through places the world is ashamed of holding. He would understand, but would still need to disagree for Hamish's sake.

Next, he made the mistake of opening the refrigerator. My samples were also sentenced to the rubbish bin. I shrugged and added another week of bribing Molly to my internal schedule. This was made less pleasant, by the constant supervision of Lestrade. They were always together.

When John noticed the ashtrays, rotting as expected on the kitchen counter, I reached to stop him.

"They're almost ready," I assured him.

"For a skip," he said, in a typical and somehow reassuring tone.

"Close enough," I borrowed his inflection, "They're for Molly."

I was made to apologise for this, despite the fact Molly was nowhere nearby and had no chance of learning what I said.

"Do you see that one?" I was frustrated, and pointed briefly at _His_ , where the film was thick and grimy.

He nodded, but kept his lips folded shut. He wanted me to speak quickly, so he could continue his cleaning conquest. Tracing my finger over the outline of the swab, I continued:

"That's the bacteria from underneath Kelley's ring. I've introduced it to both dishes. It forms a film over plastics – like those in the prosthetic arm – and does not respond to antibiotics. _That,_ " I nodded at _Hers_ , "has no bacterial colony, even though it's been sitting in optimal light and humidity for more than a fortnight."

"So it c–"

"So it couldn't've killed Mary. It doesn't grow fast enough – _Staphylococcus epidermidis._ – and it prefers plastic to living organisms," I noted the yeast, "I'm taking it to Molly for evidence. She sees _Greg_ ," I still felt betrayed by the word, "more than we will."

"Fine," John's nod was slow and sincere, "But tomorrow, it's going."

My turn to nod. I'm afraid my version was more hesitant, as John repeated himself.

After accepting me, he went to rearrange the fridge, muttering about keeping Hamish's bottle underneath the tray of stomach-lining. I assume, if he were anything other than a soldier _and_ a doctor, he would gag when I explained their presence. They were sealed in a bag before being thrown away.

Mrs Hudson arrived, as John tied up the bag. Hamish's face was red and coated in tears. He sobbed, dryly, as he was shuffled into John's arms.

"Oh, he just needed his daddy for a bit," she smiled, as John consoled him. She leaned over Hamish's face, and tickled his ear, "I _told_ you so, didn't I? Daddy makes it all better."

John was hesitant of the title, tilting his head and catching his tongue between his lips. He thought of nothing to say, and shut his mouth.

"It _is_ nice to have you back, John," Mrs Hudson continued, never unnerved by silence, "We've really missed you."

He turned to me:

" _We_ have?"

I cannot explain what drew my arm over Mrs Hudson's shoulders, but her smile did not deter me. Her fingers folded through mine, as I spoke quietly:

"Of course we have."

She continued peering at Hamish, as John hummed 'shh' into his delicate ear. He was free to face the window, supported against John's shoulder. John's hands had never moved more precisely; I doubt any of his patients were given such attention.

"Family's all we have in the end," Mrs Hudson recalled.

John was not committed to his smile. He _was_ thoroughly committed to Mary; her memory caused the corner of his mouth to remain stagnant.


	9. A Selfish Invitation

I wrestled with the idea for an embarrassing amount of time. I'd sit at my desk, flip over the invitation until nearly all the glitter was off, and look vainly at my phone. I imagined it ringing more than a dozen times.

When the phone _finally_ decided to chime, I was settling into my car – tapping the steering-wheel and tugging absently at the seatbelt – trying to waste as much time as possible before going to Molly's.

Please don't make me manage your 'normal' life, too.  
Boring.  
SH

What?  
Lestrade

That's what Molly said too.  
Predictable.  
SH

I dialled his number, not entirely convinced this was a 'normal' occurrence.

"What on earth are _you_ doing at _Molly's_?"

"Nothing," Sherlock's voice was firm, "Start driving."

He hung up, leaving me to follow his instructions. Probably based on some ridiculous claim about how he heard the keys in my hands, or about how my breath echoed differently in the car.

The invitation leaned against the handbrake, wobbling as I released it.

* * *

The front door opened too quickly; Molly seemed to be posted there, waiting for me to arrive.

"I got your text," I began, unconvincingly, "Well, Sherlock's…"

"Yeah," Molly said, tugging me in and shutting the door after me, "He just left."

"What was he d—?"

"He was– sorry."

She stepped into the kitchen, and I followed.

"No, it's alright."

"He was dropping these off." She pointed to a stack of dishes, near the window, "It's the staph sample from Kelley. He, uh, he said you'd be by. Sherlock did… not Kelley."

There was no point in asking how or why.

_God help me; I'm starting to learn things from Sherlock._

I _observed_.

The house was cleaner than I'd ever seen it, Molly's fingers were constantly hovering over her phone, and the air hinted at her peach lip-gloss. She'd probably already rubbed it off, in a rush to leave for work. With our combined impeccable timing, I'm sure I caught her at the door just as she was leaving. Fantastic…

"Look, I don't want to keep you here late. We can talk in the car."

"I was just gonna get a—"

"I know, but you're on my way." I said, not sure if it was true or not. I would worry about the route later, and the bacteria. My concern was Molly's schedule; that morning and on the evening of the party.

"Okay. Yeah, thanks."

We shut our car-doors simultaneously. As I turned the key, she noticed the invitation. By now, it was snuggled between the seats. Molly was cautious in digging it out, and peeling away the envelope. The remaining glitter – which was hardly any – settled over her lab-coat. She did not dust it off.

She did not speak, either, until we were on the road. Even then, the words were simple and composed:

"That'll be fun," she offered.

"Yeah, they've been doing it a few years now. Six, I think… I meant to ask if _you_ wanted to go. With me."

As we were stopped at a traffic-signal, I turned my head in time to see her smile, as it spread. She nodded and looked out the window.

"Will Sherlock be there?" she asked, then promptly apologised.

"I don't think he'd be keen on going; too many people. But you can… invite him, if you like."

"No, I didn't mean like _that._ Of course I'll go with you."

The car was comfortable for sitting and talking. It offered an opportunity to look straight ahead, or to fake focusing on the signs outside. I could say whatever I wanted, and not be afraid of Molly's face as I said it.

* * *

On the night of the party, my car was equally consoling. It didn't mind as I messed with the mirrors, in order to check my tie for the hundredth time. I grinned at my reflection, felt utterly ridiculous, then went to pick up Molly.

She was standing outside, waiting for me. Although her beauty was memorable, I found it indescribable.

Molly shuffled into her seat. She did not seem uncomfortable in her gown, but was aware of every bit of it. She tucked it over her feet, and brushed away the rain water it had collected.

"How long were you waiting outside?" Not the first thing I should've said…

"Not long. Just finished getting ready, really."

"Sorry," I said, "That's no way to start a date."

"A date," she affirmed, watching me nod. I reminded her how poorly I'd asked her, but she forgave me and said she was used to it.

She shut the door, sending in a rush of rainy air and mixing it with her perfume. It was gentle.

I wish I could say what colour her dress was, or precisely the way she curled her hair… beneath flickering streetlights and between flashes of lightning, I couldn't tell.

There was a box in her lap, perfectly wrapped. I didn't notice this until we reached the party. It was hosted at a hotel ballroom, not far from the Yard.

My car-door hung open. Light crept from the dashboard, falling over her folded fingers. She played with the bow.

"This is for you," she said, sliding it toward me. It waited between me and the steering-wheel. I stared.

"You want me to open it now?"

"Yeah… in case you don't like it, so I can make it up to you."

"I'm sure I'll love it. And if we're doing prezzies now," I used the phrase because she liked it, "Yours is on the floor behind you."

"You first." She reached for it, regardless, and looked at the paper. Well, gift-bag. I was rubbish at wrapping things.

"We'll open them on 'three.'" I said simultaneously.

I counted upward, while she counted backward, and we opened them together. I was grateful to see her skip the card, so I did the same.

It was wonderful, feeling so synchronised. We looked at each other, at precisely the same moment, and proceeded to giggle about our gifts. We both started to speak at once, too, but I motioned for her to go ahead.

"You remembered," she said simply. Her smile was the most genuine thing I'd seen in years.

"So did you."

We sat and compared our gifts; each a bottle of wine.

"Was that a whole _year_ ago?" I asked, turning the bottle in my hands.

"Almost two."

" _No._ "

"Yeah," she laughed.

_Two_ years ago, then, was the dinner party at John's place. Sherlock was there, of course, not looking concerned or even slightly out of place, despite not having a date. Well, I didn't have a date either. I hadn't asked Molly there. She was invited separately. But with Mary and John at one end of the table, Sherlock defiantly at the other, and Molly and I pressed into the middle, it felt that way.

We both brought wine as a gift for our hosts.

"Cabernet Sauvignon," I remarked, watching her set the bottle down. It was adorned with an expert bow. "That's my favourite. Do you like –?"

"Hate it," she said, trying to smile, "Did you do wine, as well?"

"White Zinfandel," I announced, checking to see that John and Mary were still in the other room, " _Hate it_."

"Do you?"

"Oh, yeah. Too fruity." I considered her lipstick, present as often as I was, "I mean, it smells nice, but I just… can't do the taste."

"That's fine," she offered, "But if I knew that, I would've traded."

* * *

Molly and I remained in the car for way too long, reminiscing about our collection of hashed 'first dates.'

"Could go all the way back to Sherlock's Christmas party," I mumbled, refolding the paper over my present.

"Oh, no… I don't count that one. I still remember every word he said to me, and—"

"And none of 'em were true. Not a single one."

The silence was comfortable, shadowed by thunder and the idling car. I reached for my keys, as Molly remarked about the time.

"We should be getting inside," she said, "I don't want people to think that we –"

"I've got your coat."

Her laughter was relaxed and reassuring. I folded her coat over my arm, and led her inside.

There, between necessary greetings and introductions, I could properly admire her dress.

It was a deep purple – aubergine, she would probably call it – and it complemented her hair wonderfully. Her hair had just been dyed or cut or styled or _something._ Sherlock would be able to distinguish far better than I could.

_Really? You're going to think about Sherlock..._

Molly had wandered off to one of the catering tables, promising to return with drinks, while I watched and dozed off a bit. We had an area to ourselves; a little sofa with a table in front of it, facing the eerily empty dance-floor. I tried not to think about dancing.

Donovan wandered by, following Anderson. Not too closely. They tried to avoid suspicion, even though everyone knew.

"So _you_ haven't got a date," I muttered, hoping I'd beat her to the joke.

"You haven't either," she noticed the empty seat beside me, "If you ask me to dance, I _will_ shoot you."

"That's a bit harsh," I gestured to the seat across from me, "Have a seat."

Molly arrived, set down two wine glasses, and reached to shake Donovan's hand.

"I was just leaving," she said, as usual. Her eyes always rolled at Molly. That would need to stop.

The wine, though, became a distraction. Molly took my hand, as I reached for the darker glass.

"I thought we'd do a trade."

"Really?" I cocked my head, and hoped she didn't see me as angry. I wasn't.

This time, we both counted up to 'three', then took a gulp of the wine. No dignified sipping. She laughed and coughed, then reminded me how much she hated dark wines.

"Still too fruity," I said, setting down my glass, "You're mad."

* * *

Thankfully, Molly shared a fear and disinterest in dancing. I would've suffered through it silently, but was relieved when she pointed at a dancing couple and said she was 'at least three times as clumsy.'

It took us the entire evening to finish our traded wine. Once the glasses were empty, we took them to the car and enjoyed a sample from our gift-bottles. The car, as always, welcomed our conversation. The wine deepened it, but not beyond repair or concern.

Anderson walked by, peering annoyingly through the window. Donovan followed him, and tapped on it until I rolled it down. I set down the glass, relieved to feel it fit into the cup-holder.

"I could do with a promotion," she muttered, "But I'd rather you _not_ die in a drink-drive accident."

I leaned through the window:

"How'd you have me die?"

I'm sure she rolled her eyes. The streetlight caught them, then shimmered over the pins in her hair.

"I'll drive," she said, "Consider it an apology."

"I consider it, 'I can't drive back with Anderson 'cause his wife's home.'"

"Shove off."

I was moved to the back-seat, and managed to stay quiet. Except when arguing for Molly to be dropped off first. That would be safe and chivalrous.

"Then me, and you can pick me up for work Monday."

"Can I?" sighed Donovan, "Oh, good."

I insisted on walking Molly to her door, while Donovan shrugged back in the driver's seat.

"Thanks," said Molly. She held her gift-bag, with the open bottle poking through the top, "That was fun."

"Yeah. Thanks."

She took her coat from me, and turned one of the sleeves inside-out. She dabbed at her lips, then leaned in.

"Too fruity," she hummed to my ear. Her breath was hot, and soothed my throbbing temples.

I hoped my hand was steady and dry, as I brushed her cheek.

* * *

I only remembered the kiss, as I rolled out of my bed the next morning. I was greeted with a mild headache, gummy eyes, and a sore throat. My jacket was poorly folded at the foot of the bed, and my tie was still on, but loosened as far as the unbuttoned collar would allow. I coughed, removed it, and tossed it across the room. Molly's card was on my nightstand, leaning against the bottle. I did not have the patience to read it, until after having some aspirin. I reached for the medication, kept in the drawer of the stand.

On my left hand, I noticed a little patch of red. The blood was dark and dry, and twisted over all four fingers. I rubbed at it, trying to find the source.

I swallowed the pill without water.

I could not remember the cut; only the kiss.


	10. Sleeping at the Cinema

John slept less than I did. His time was torn between Hamish – who cried rather a lot – and nightmares, which I assumed were about Mary. Her name was usually the first thing he said, when jolted awake. His bedroom was above mine. I could hear more than I intended.

He mentioned his susceptibility to nightmares, after what he calls _A Study in Pink_. We went to dinner, and he talked about finding his therapist. They subsided after he originally moved in at Baker Street, so I was unsure of how to deal with them. I would not bring it up.

I would not bring it up _intentionally_.

One morning, I waited on my armchair - resting my chin over lattice-work fingers – and staring at Hamish. Mrs Hudson had arranged his crib beside the obligatory Christmas tree, proclaiming him a 'gift' and tying a bow overhead for him to look at. He was, somehow, better to talk to than John. And infinitely better than my skull, which Mrs Hudson had restored to my bedroom.

"Your _father_ misses your mother too much," I told him, "But you don't. You _can't_. He doesn't recognize his good luck."

Hamish was awake, but his head was turned away from me. He liked to babble. As John instructed, I waited until the baby was done 'speaking' to continue. Something about teaching him proper conversational techniques – even though everyone who saw him sprinkled him with nonsensical gibberish. John said I must not have been introduced to this rule as an infant.

"Do you have nightmares, Hamish? No, that's _stupid_ , of course you don't." I could hear John's footsteps above us, "Your _father_ does, even though he has you _and_ I."

"'Morning," John grumbled, leaning on the door-frame. It was evident he'd heard my musings. He stepped quietly past me and into the kitchen. I watched as he brewed half as much coffee as usual, and scooped powdered formula into a dish of milk. He set this in the microwave, and checked his watch after tapping in the time and 'start.' He was already dressed, but had not taken a shower.

He stirred his coffee and retrieved the dish from the microwave. Carefully, he tested the temperature, then poured it into Hamish's bottle. He walked out of the kitchen, both hands occupied. I would wait for Mrs Hudson to make my coffee, I decided.

_I'm not jealous. It's stupid to be jealous. Normal people are jealous._

John's preference was logical. He set down his coffee before presenting Hamish with his bottle. They exchanged ridiculous expressions, while John provided some simplified mush about 'breakfast for Hamish', even though 'you' was correct. I would not be responsible for Hamish's forthcoming lack of language.

John scooted his chair as close as possible to the crib. He checked his watch too often, and drank his coffee too quickly. He grimaced a lot, and tried to cool his tongue against his teeth. He tucked his watch beneath the sleeve of his jumper, when he caught me looking:

"Hmm?"

"Where are you going?" I asked him. It would be most efficient for him to tell me, but I would figure it out regardless. Either way, one of us would be frustrated.

"I start back at work today. I _know_ I told you."

"You're not dressed for work."

He sighed and crossed his legs. Defensive.

"I'm going to see Harry," He lingered over the penultimate sip of his coffee. I heard the rest, just enough to cover the ignored grounds, sloshing around the bottom of the mug.

"It's too early."

"For _this_ ," he tossed a hand toward me, annoyed, "God, yes."

John stood, took his coat from the closet, and settled a hand over the bannister.

"You're actually leaving me alone with the baby. _Your_ baby."

His head barely turned over his shoulder.

"I hadn't noticed Mrs Hudson moving out…"

I shrugged and shut my eyes, for some time longer than necessary.

"I should be back before dinner."

" _Should_?"

"Yeah. And _please_ don't call Lestrade if I'm running late. Just text me, alright?"

"It was _one time_. You hadn't texted me back in four days, so I had to—"

"I was on my _honeymoon_ ," He snapped at this, placed a hand on his forehead, and muttered as he left the flat. I knew that sleep would remedy his hostile mood, and hoped he was going somewhere peaceful.

I did not need to leave my chair, to picture him waving for a cab on the corner.

 

Don't sleep in the cab. Not safe.  
S

WHAT BROUGHT THAT UP?  
J

No need to shout.  
S

No need to be a dick.  
J

Mrs Hudson arrived, asked too many questions about John, then went to make coffee.

"That's not like him at all; stomping out like that," she kept saying, as she sprinkled sugar into my cup. I took this and went to consult John's laptop, covering the gash in the table. Piles of paper had to be swept aside; expense-notices, soppy cheques, 'sympathy' letters he would never respond to, and the occasional picture of him and Mary together.

"He's _perfectly_ fine," I said, hoping she would be silent without me ordering her so.

I unfolded the laptop, typed in the password, and scrolled through John's history. The time-stamps suggested he was downstairs after I'd gone into my room. He was searching for cinemas that would honour a military discount. I assumed he'd found one.

While I stacked the papers around the computer, Hamish decided to cry. He was not even close to finishing his 'breakfast', and had tossed the bottle to the other side of his enclosure.

"Twenty-two-hundred hertz," I said, watching him and reaching for a pen. Mrs Hudson dashed in and stood over him, tea-towel in hand. I hoped it was dry, as she blotted his face with it.

She picked him up, and the cries intensified.

"No, put him back," I told her, detailing Hamish's pattern on a notepad, "There's no answer."

"He just misses his Daddy," Mrs Hudson's voice was almost as bad as the crying. Which continued as I predicted.

"Put him _back_."

"Sherlock, I'm not going to sit around and let the poor dear—!"

I approached her and presented my chart, hoping she would understand it or at least _pretend_ to.

"Infants mimic the vocal patterns of the adults around them most often. The dreadful noise he's making now," I was nearly shouting to cover it, as my voice was a good deal lower than the wailing, "is in the middle of his frequency-range. It's conversational. He's not asking for anything; _put him down_."

She blinked up at me, and returned Hamish gently to his bed. He took a deep, shaky breath, and was quiet. Mrs Hudson grabbed the bottle and dropped it into the sink. She was thinking about what to tell me, as she turned on the tap. She eventually settled on, "You're a miracle."

Not a _miracle-worker_ , as her vernacular would usually employ. She suggested – unfairly but somewhat correctly – that everything I did was miraculous.

More miraculous, however, was John's newly-installed internal clock. Or perhaps it was paranoia, as he'd never left _me_ to oversee Hamish for more than two minutes.

 

All alright?  
J

Don't text during the film.  
S

Is something wrong?  
J

Should I bother asking how you knew?  
J

No to both. Relax.  
S

I added to my studies of Hamish's voice for the majority of the afternoon, pleased with the quiet and my own focus. When the baby awoke from an unintentional sleep, he whined.

"What's that one mean, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson's voice was gentle, and arrived on a marvellous cloud of steam and chemicals. I turned and saw which parts of the kitchen she had cleaned, and noted the ingredients she was using for our dinner.

I glanced back at Hamish, and stepped closer to him. He watched me, wadded up both hands and waved them. He smiled, made a new sort of chirping noise, and continued reaching upward. I offered a hand, knowing his grip – even if he became angry – would be weak and poorly-aimed.

"Nothing."

"Just chattering away, then. You'll have to tell John. Or," she chuckled, "Hamish will; the darling."

His pitch dropped, very slightly, as he successfully touched my hand. He did not like when I pulled it away; this was expressed with his typical screech.

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson slammed a cupboard shut, then rushed in to join me, "What's that one?"

"He wants to be held," I considered returning my hand to his, "I'll never understand it."

"So _hold_ him."

"You're better… qualified."

I returned to my chair, and allowed Mrs Hudson – sighing and wiping her hands on her skirt – to scoop him up. It took several minutes for the noise to subside. He looked at me, whenever Mrs Hudson swayed in my direction. He enjoyed babbling, especially when she answered.

"He'll be hungry, next," I said, glancing at my chart.

"Well, his bottle's on the counter; nice and clean. Anyway, it's nearly dinnertime for all of us. Oh!" she began, suddenly still, "Should I phone John?"

She set the baby back in his crib, and tugged at his blanket.

"I will."

"That's probably best," she returned to the kitchen, in order to prepare Hamish's meal.

 

All alright?  
S

It took nearly fifteen minutes for him to answer. In this time, I managed _not_ to call Lestrade.

 

I hope you're not mocking me.  
And yeah, fine.  
J

"Did you phone him?"

"Texted."

"Oh, right," she set the bottle on the table in front of me, "Would you feed him, Sherlock? I've got to finish the potatoes."

"Give him the bottle; he can hold it himself."

" _Sherlock_ ," Mrs Hudson was already gone. I resigned myself to holding the baby – with the blanket kept between us for our health – and needlessly restraining the bottle. I heard the door clicking open; John joined us upstairs as Hamish grew bored with his bottle. I dropped it to the table.

"Is that you, John?" Mrs Hudson asked, even though he was the only option. His dinner was spinning in the microwave. Mrs Hudson insisted we wait for him. This didn't matter to me.

He noticed the food, as the microwave beeped, and glanced between us. I stood and brought Hamish to him.

"Sorry I'm back late," he said, looking mostly at his son, "I hope he wasn't too much trouble…"

"Never, Dear. Slept all day."

"Most of the day," I corrected, "It appears you did the same."

John rubbed his eyes:

"I hate making excuses, but I really—"

"No, it's… fine."

Mrs Hudson arrived, and took his shoulder. The scarred one, as always; he had never told her about it. Her voice was remarkable at calming him:

"Now, you just sit down and have your dinner. I'll put the kettle on, as well."

Hamish, I assumed, would soon become very irritated by his crib. He spent too much time in it.

The microwaved plate was set out at John's usual seat. Mrs Hudson dragged in a spare chair from the sitting area, and amended herself to the dining-table. She watched the kettle and was quick to silence it, as Hamish didn't like the whistling. Sometimes he would attempt to copy it, which was even worse.

John matched my silence, and cut up all of his food before he began eating it. This was unusual, and suggested anger.

"So," Mrs Hudson began, presenting us with our tea, "Sherlock says you got some rest… that's good. Were you at the park? It's lovely this time of year."

"Cinema," John and I said simultaneously. He continued, "There's no one there, this close to Christmas. Slept through… four films, I think it was."

"My text woke you."

"No; I was outside waiting for a cab by then. It was _The Marksman's Daughter_ – or whatever that new war film's called – I can't sleep through gunshots. Or through, um… screaming."

I was intrigued, and took a careful sip of my tea before furthering the investigation:

"Surely you've stopped having nightmares about the War… Was it Mary you thought of, or was it Hamish?"

John's mouth remained open, as his fork clattered down to the plate, then fell to stab the table. He did not eat and he did not speak. Mrs Hudson gave me a disapproving look. _You were doing so well,_ her face said, _But you're making a right hash of it now._

"Sherlock, please," she started, lips trembling. I was safe as long as John was present; she could not detail my wrongdoings without digging up more of his sorrow. And he wouldn't leave, as he was an ideal blend of exhaustion, disbelief, and the restrained fury of a soldier. He could hold the gun, press it right against my temple, but he couldn't curl his finger over the trigger; his orders stated otherwise. He was free to find satisfaction in shouting – repeating everything he was force-fed about his cause – even though I, as a hostage, would never understand it. And I certainly wouldn't believe it.

John maintained a normal volume, but his tone was painful for all of us:

"Sherlock," his hands became fists on the table, "I have watched my enemies die, and it isn't as gratifying as they tell you. I've watched my friends die… people I knew from University, or earlier. I've stayed silent – fearing for my own life instead of honouring theirs – and the bullets never stopped. I couldn't even _watch_ my… _w-wife_ die. I don't know what her last words were. What if she asked to see Hamish? To hold him? To hold her _son._ I'll never know." He took in a sharp, cold breath, "I watched _you_ die, damn it, and if you think I've forgiven you for what _you_ bloody did to me, you're wrong."

"John," begged Mrs Hudson. Hamish stirred but did not yet resort to crying.

"I can't control my nightmares, Sherlock, and I don't care what you can do with yours. Alright? They'll be there until the day _I_ die, and there's nothing anyone can do."

He stood, nearly knocking his chair backward, and stomped over to Hamish. I heard the whine that always preceded his crying. _John's_ crying, not the baby's. He retreated upstairs to his bedroom, alone.

"Oh, I _told_ you he didn't seem like himself today," Mrs Hudson muttered, "You're not taking another bite of _anything_ until you go up there and apologise."

"I'm not hungry."

She continued glaring. I was quiet in following John.

He was folded up on the foot of the bed, managing his tears and measuring his breaths.

"Hamish," he said, upon hearing my approaching footsteps. He did not look up, "It was about Hamish."

"Sorry…?"

"You heard me."

" _I'm_ sorry. For bringing it up," I stood and looked down at him, inching my feet under the bed, "I should've recognised anger as a part of grieving; I've observed it before, when—"

"Don't ruin it."

"I'm sorry."

"And you were right; I don't have nightmares about the war anymore," finally, he met my eyes, "Or about _you_ , or even Mary – God forgive me. Only Hamish… _always_ Hamish. I mean, I've got no _idea_ what I'm doing, and what if I mess something up? He's all I've got."

The cane.

"I'm your friend," I said, purposely avoiding any inflection.

"Yeah," he sighed, "you are."

"You have both of us."


	11. Talking over Takeaway

Greg,  
Just had to thank you again for inviting me (well, in case I forget tonight, or if I say something wrong… it's much easier to write it. And then erase it, and then write most of it exactly the same. Anyway…) I really like spending time with you, and I'm glad you invited me. It probably doesn't seem like it, but I always feel really comfortable around you and I just really love seeing you every day. Didn't mean to write so much… hope you enjoy your present!  
Love,  
Molly

I had memorised every word, working backward from 'Love.' The most important things wait until the end, it seems.

The card was a welcome addition to my nightstand, but it also made frequent trips to the office. There, it leaned against a dusty family portrait, helping me to redefine the image.

I still had no recollection of the cut on my finger, even when I skimmed through the case notes. It was, as with the first victim, on the base of the ring-finger. I knew I would _need_ to tell someone eventually; probably Sherlock. I didn't want to worry Molly.

For this reason, I stuck a plaster over it, and placed one to match on my middle finger. She'd probably feel bad, if I said I cut myself cooking. Seemed fair to me.

We were meeting for dinner, since she hadn't been able to meet me at work for about a month. Someone at the morgue had been sacked, she said, and made her job a lot more time-consuming.

Where do you want to do dinner?  
M

I tapped the 'call' button:

"The park's lovely this time of year," I began, as she was greeting me, "Or did you mean food?"

"I'll meet you. Food's taken care of."

"Sounds great."

I tucked my phone into my coat-pocket, after checking the time. A bit early for dinner, but never to see Molly. Even if I left immediately after putting my phone away, she would somehow beat me there.

I didn't need to text her again. She was easy to find, brushing off a park-bench and setting out our dinner.

"Good to see you," I said, just loud enough for her to turn around, "Been awhile…"

"Yeah," she agreed, "Since the party, I think. Nice to have a break in the case, though."

She sat down, satisfied with her work, and folded up the paper bag the food was stowed in. This was set beneath her work-bag, to prevent it blowing away in the wind.

"Not everything's a serial killer," I offered, taking the seat across from her. I reached for one of the takeaway boxes, neatly marked with my name, "What are we having, then?"

"It's from the Chinese place Sherlock likes." She paused, having seen my injury, "You're _sure_ there's nothing new about the case?"

I folded up my fingers, curling them over the edge of the table. My thumb tapped the wood, gently shaking the silverware in front of me.

"Nah, I was… um, I was cooking and it just—"

" _Greg_."

"It isn't infected or anything. Barely scratched the skin."

Her voice was shared by concern and scepticism, "Where did you get it, really?"

I paused and found no value in lying:

"I dunno. And I haven't told Sherlock yet, alright?"

"Oh, Greg," she sighed, "You should. Can I see it?"

Molly took over my injured hand, while my phone claimed the other. I set it down on the table, and typed slowly and gawkily with my single hand. I couldn't be bothered to sign it.

I need your info about that bacteria.  
May have a new victim.

Lestrade?  
I don't do anonymous clients.  
SH

I felt Molly's fingers between mine, rubbing the wound apologetically, as if she'd caused it.

"Did he answer?" she asked, looking for something in her purse. She found a fresh plaster and insisted on applying it for me.

"Is it alright if I phone him?"

"Of course it is."

I did so.

"I expect a name," he said coldly. If it were anyone other than Sherlock, I'd ask if he was having a bad day. Sherlock didn't do those, like the rest of us.

"Gregory Lestrade," I said, somewhat sarcastically.

He was quiet for a moment.

"Oh," he said flatly, " _You_."

"What do you mean, ' _you?'"_ my attempt at his voice made Molly giggle. I put the call on speaker-phone.

"Someone doesn't want it solved, obviously," He continued, "Unless you and Kelley Davies have something else in common. Go."

"I'd never even _met_ the bloke."

"You spoke to his fiancée."

"For all of a minute. Come _on_ , Sherlock; we can do this later. Just get me whatever you've got on that bacteria."

" _Bacterium_ ," he growled, "Your cut is in the _precise_ location of Kelley's?"

"Yeah," I glanced up at Molly, "But I haven't had my ring on for… must be more than a month."

"Is it infected?"

"Doesn't look like—"

"No," Molly said, timidly, "It's not, yet."

Sherlock gave an agitated sigh, crackling over the speakers.

"How did you get it?" he continued, "We need to establish _some_ similarity between you and Kelley."

"Look, Sherlock; I don't remember, okay? It was the night of the Christmas Party at The Yard, and we'd all had some drinks, so…"

"Were the drinks poisoned?"

"How should I—?"

"Unusual symptoms, such as," his voice tumbled into a low and angry whisper, " _forgetting the entire evening_ and _not feeling_ a _deep legion to one of the more sensitive parts of the human body._ "

"No, it couldn't have been that," Molly decided, "We opened the wine ourselves, remember?"

Sherlock muttered something indeterminate.

"Sally," Molly said softly, "She was the last one we saw, wasn't she?"

"Donovan?" said Sherlock. As soon as I said "yeah", he hung up the phone.

"Why would she do that?" I mumbled, as Molly stared. Our food was cold by now, as she finally served it, "I don't think she would. Do you?"

"I don't know her well enough," Molly remained quiet, "But she _was_ the last one you saw. Did she go inside with you, as well?"

"I _don't remember_."

"You must remember _something_."

"You've been taking lessons from Sherlock," I muttered, but obliged, "Just waking up and seeing your card. Had a headache, but nothing terrible. Took some aspirin and went back to bed."

"You saw the cut, though?"

"Yeah, I must've done."

"But you just went to sleep like nothing was—?"

"Okay, sorry," I said, trying not to sound annoyed.

"Oh, no," Molly offered, "I didn't mean it like that, really. _I'm_ sorry, for not driving home with you. Maybe I could've stopped Sally or… or whoever did it."

"I don't think Sally did it," I said again, forcing myself to believe it. I liked to think, after over a decade of working with her, I could describe her actions and patterns. I maintained that, even when she'd turned in Sherlock a few years ago, it was done at Anderson's pressing. That was petty; this was professional.

"But I should've been with you," she nodded and scooped a bite from her box. I did the same.

Molly was best defined by her protectiveness. I never saw her as anything else. No complaints, either.

"You should, uhm, move in with me."

"Sounds romantic," I shrugged.

"Well, I-I don't want anything else to happen to you, alright? I don't know… what I would do."

"Sounds fine," I watched her expression as it dried up, "No, _perfect_."

She ate some more, in order to avoid speaking. She picked up her napkin, dabbing her lips after every bite.

"I was gonna ask anyway," she said, "About that."

I smiled.

"Glad you did. I feel like I should've offered my place, though."

"Would that be better?" she set the napkin in her lap.

"Nope. Not at all."

"I didn't want to rush you or anything like that, but I—"

She stared into her box, curling noodles between her chopsticks.

"I don't wanna rush _you_ ," I said, "But my rent's up at the end of the month, anyways."

Molly looked up, eyes bright.

"Next weekend? That's fine."

"You sure?"

"It's _perfect_."

We shared a comfortable silence, and traded grins. She won, in the end, when she giggled.

She offered to help me pack, but I wouldn't have it. I dropped her off at home, chatting about all the benefits of our new setup, and drove eagerly home.

It was empty, and I hated it. Silent, and stripped of its comfort and security. Some of that left along with the wife, while some of it disappeared years earlier.

Immediately, I set to packing. The last thing I would pack, I decided, would be Molly's card. I would establish it like a tent on my stack of boxes, and let it greet me when I came home from work.

Can't wait to see you every day.  
Love,  
G

Same!  
=))  
(The extra is for the lipstick.)  
M


	12. The Unqualified Babysitter

The room was warm and quiet.

John was on the couch across from me, drifting in and out of sleep, with the baby sprawled out across his chest. Hamish was pinned down by the blanket, as John had buried them both beneath it. Warm and quiet.

Mrs Hudson stepped in every so often, finger pressed against her lips as a personal reminder. She would rearrange the bookshelf, dust the windowsill, and check the refrigerator. Then she would wave at me and leave. Respectful, polite.

I saw Mycroft's name, igniting my phone. My attempts to answer it quickly were more devastatingly annoying than the ringtone. I scooped it up and stumbled upstairs, to barricade myself in the overstuffed, acoustically useless corner of John's room. I shut the door and stared at the phone-screen.

Hopefully, the call would disappoint our personal record of thirty-eight seconds:

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed. The single word had wasted a considerable amount of time.

" _What?_ "

"I've just been reading some supplementary case-notes… I'd like you to go and—"

"No."

"I understand the petty instinct to disappoint your brother, but what about your friend?"

I glanced at my watch. The call was approaching twenty seconds.

"You are not my friend."

"I've been aware of _that_ , Sherlock," he mumbled, stained by disappointment, "since the first time you said my name."

I refused to speak any more. Mycroft was aware of this strategy, and played both parts:

"I've based my research on Moriarty's gunmen. Yes, I remember them. I _know_ none were aimed at me. I _know_ I don't matter to you; don't remind me. I've borrowed Detective Inspector Lestrade's notes, because I'm _worried_ about you. I know you don't want me to be. You won't recognize your vulnerability; an ignorant cycle which only makes it worse. It is _all_ I recognize; it's a curse."

I rolled my eyes.

"I know you won't go anywhere when I tell you, so I've arranged for Lestrade to call you, as well."

"Why would Lestrade give you his notes, before speaking to me?"

"Sherlock," he breathed, "if I knew him any better, I'd be afraid for my life, too."

I felt my eyes widening, taking in the stale air. I did not blink or move whatsoever:

" _Oh_!"

The case had unravelled, all on its own. I tossed the phone to John's bed and followed it. Agitated, I shoved John's pillow to the floor, and crossed my arms to support my head. Concentration was easiest with my eyes shut.

As I scanned through my recollections of the soldier's crime-scene, my phone vibrated. I felt it against my arm, and wanted to scold it. I didn't, though; I was afraid of waking John.

 

Meet me at Bart's.  
New developments. Need you in person.  
Lestrade

I did not answer. Again, it rang:

Mycroft _._

"I am _trying_ to _think_ ," I snarled, " _What_?!"

I had succeeded in luring the baby from his sleep. He wailed. John must've hurt himself, sitting up so quickly, as he offered 'Ow', God' and 'Hamish' in quick succession. The scream continued.

"Twenty-six hundred hertz," said Mycroft, "I am calling to offer my services, while you and John meet with Lestrade. This is the _only_ offer I will make of the sort."

A feeling of condescension lingered over me, as I buried the phone in my dressing-gown's inner pocket and slinked down the stairs. As always, the feeling infected me.

John looked up at me. His eyes followed mine until I sat down. Then, they returned to the baby.

"We're going out, right now. Get your coat."

He made no attempt at standing, and continued rocking Hamish in his arms. The blanket was on the ground, beneath his bare feet.

"Where are _we_ going?"

" _We_ are going out, and Hamish is staying here."

"Mrs Hudson's gone to—"

"I've made arrangements. Get up." I let the dressing-gown fall from my shoulders, and dusted the shirt I wore beneath it. I'd lost track of the day, and, thus, of how long I had been wearing it. John watched, as I put on my coat and threw his over the edge of the couch.

"Sherlock…"

Completely convinced John would follow me, I stepped purposely down the creaking stairs and slammed the front door behind me. It was opened, only partially, by John.

"I'm not leaving Hamish alone, thank you very much. Tell me where _you're_ going, and I'll meet you once Mrs Hudson's back."

Once again, he forced me to lie. I hated it:

"She hasn't gone anywhere; I've just phoned her."

"Have you?"

"Yes." I waved for a taxi and avoided John's eyes.

"Really," it wasn't a question, but a self-shaming sigh. The very definition of disbelief, torn and trampled.

"Hamish," I said, dragging him by the arm toward a waiting cab, "will be fine. And adequately supervised."

As our car pulled away, another replaced it. It parked in front of the café, wearing a distracting amount of polish for its maiden drive. John stared back at it, using the side-mirror.

He would figure it out, and there was nothing I could do.

* * *

"Alright," he said, as we arrived at our destination, "I know _you_ don't like talking with him, but he wouldn't come by if it wasn't important."

"This is _more_ important. He'll wait."

" _Sherlock_ …"

I said nothing, because I needed John to continue following me. He tried to read over my shoulder, but I knew he would be unsuccessful. His height was not helped by the distance between us.

 

If anything is wrong, I am never speaking to you again.  
SH

 

That threat sounds familiar, Sherlock.  
As you may recall, I've done this before, with a child far less appreciative.  
MH

Lestrade was leaning on the desk in the lobby. He stood taller, upon seeing us, and retracted his hand from the wall where it rested. His left hand was kept in his pocket, but took up more space than usual. I estimated the thickness of the bandage and, thus, the severity of his infection.

"Is this about _you_?"

John's eyes flickered between us.

"Sorry?" he said.

Lestrade shook his head.

"I'll be fine."

"You would've called sooner," I mumbled, mostly to myself, "if it was another murder…"

John inquired about Lestrade's ailment, as we were escorted down an echoing corridor:

"So the antibiotic's working?" John confirmed.

"Oh, yeah. But it's a good job I'm right-handed."

They nodded at each other, then John glanced uncomfortably at his ring-finger. Lestrade caught up to me, eager to defuse this:

"What details did Mycroft give you? I mean, I assumed he'd call."

John stopped to clarify the situation, by snapping his head violently to one side. He stared at the wall.

"Mrs Hudson's not home," he said. He was upset that I did not turn to face him, "You told me—!"

"I _told_ you I'd take care of it, and I have."

John _wanted_ to say something – like, 'nice try' or 'hardly' – but he was consumed in running.

"My bad," offered Lestrade. I said nothing.

We were stopped in front of a dimly-lit room. The nurse abandoned us, while Molly stepped forward and opened the door from the inside.

 

John's on his way.  
Well done.  
SH

Thank you for the text.  
It makes it possible to overlook the sarcasm. See?  
MH

I gave some approximation of 'ugh' at a combination of factors. This included Mycroft's text, the suffocating sterile kit Molly shoved at me, and the overwhelming circulation of laundry detergent. This disagreed with the rest of the setting, but matched Molly and Lestrade, disturbingly. What they wore had been washed in the same location and on the same day.

I rolled my eyes, and approximated a wedding date. As I began to speak, Lestrade interrupted me:

"You _need_ to put it on. We're going upstairs."

"What's upstairs? There's no murder."

"Could be," he shrugged, "That's why you're gonna put it on. I can't let you _not_ , alright?"

The garment made a variety of irritating noises, as I shuffled along in it. I was provided gloves and a surgical mask, as well. I would complain later.

"It's for _your_ safety," Lestrade said, at the summit of every other stair.

Molly remained timidly behind us, until we reached the appropriate door. She insisted on opening it, sacrificing her gloves instead of mine. This was wise, as I didn't have the patience to put another pair on. Gritty and always too tight.

In the room was an unattended hospital-bed. The wheels were not locked in place; the patient had recently arrived. Machines echoed her heartbeat.

"I believe you've met," Lestrade said, stepping closer to the bed.

Nurse Connor, finally free of her wedding band. Her eyes were loosely shut and filmy. Her hands twitched at her sides.

"But _you_ haven't," I prompted, looking at Lestrade. Molly remarked about introducing them once, but only once.

"Ideas?"

"Three."

Lestrade waited quietly, while I looked over the decomposing woman. Her eyes opened, briefly, when I picked up her hand. The incision was there as I expected, formerly shielded by the ring, and overflowing with infection. It had climbed beneath her fingernails, and sprawled across her arm all the way to the shoulder.

"She helped deliver John's son, I was told."

I felt no need to look at Lestrade.

"She did."

"And it's the same strain as the sample you gave me," Molly added, "The one from Kelley."

She joined me beside the patient, stretching a fresh latex glove over her hand.

"Same as Greg has, too. But she's never had it treated."

"Obviously," I said.

I understood, recalling how she refused to remove her ring, even for the surgery. But Mary's death was not connected to the bacteria. I shook my head and stepped from the room. My phone was going off, and I wanted to avoid being scolded for removing it in the sterile environment. Although this was certainly not a favour I owed to Nurse Connor.

 

Sorry.  
J

 

What for?  
S

 

Not trusting you. Or Mycroft.  
I should know better by now, shouldn't I?  
J

I felt especially stupid, tapping my phone with the hazardous gloves, then pressing my masked mouth to it. I shrugged and rushed to tug them off before John could pick up the phone:

"Yes," I said, "You should."

"I don't like you lying to me, though. You're lucky Mycroft's here."

"Oh?"

He asked why I sounded 'funny.' I did not respond appropriately, and instead asked 'just how useless' Mycroft was managing to be.

"Not useless at all… he's a miracle," he learned the word from Mrs Hudson, "I'm never seen Hamish sleep so well. And – would you believe it – he _smiled_ at me? Tea's all ready, too, for whenever you get home."

"Well, you can give Mycroft my seat, if he hasn't taken it already. I need to stop somewhere else."

John was in the kitchen, seated at a barstool and leaning his free hand on the counter. I heard what must've been Mycroft shuffling through the cabinets. A tin of biscuits tapped the marble, followed by the rolling noise of its lid.

"What do you need?"

"Antibiotics," I looked at the gloves, inside-out and piled before my feet, "For an experiment."

Blindly, he offered to write the prescription before hanging up. I heard the phone shift to his right hand, and smudge against his cheek as he wrote.

"Don't be _too_ late," he said, to conclude the call.

I peeled off the mask and added it to the wilting pile. I would clean my phone, later.

 

You've really outdone yourself.  
I'll never understand your fascination with him.  
SH

And you've run out of biscuits.  
Nor I yours, Little Brother.  
MH

"Sherlock," Molly's face emerged from the door. This would be her third pair of gloves; it would not be worth it, "We think she's going into a coma… I called for a nurse and -"

"Shut _up_."


	13. The Overqualified Babysitter

Molly was quiet in shutting the door. Sherlock glared through the glass, and it took him several minutes to decide to join us. You could tell, on his face, exactly when he made the decision to re-enter the suite. I had never seen such resentment, even from him.

After his face had drained somewhat – taking over Molly's instead – the nurse arrived. Molly, immediately after replacing her gloves, nestled her fingers between mine. Our hands were hidden, half-consciously, behind her back. Sherlock glared.

The nurse studied her patient, and compared figures on her clipboard to those on the machines.

"Is she gonna be okay?" asked Molly, gently.

The nurse nodded and prepared a syringe. Sherlock watched, eyes repeatedly scanning over the label. Then he moved to the readings and watched them change, with every passing drop from the needle.

"I must ask you to leave, though," said the nurse, as she finished with the needle, "She shouldn't be disturbed."

I glanced at Sherlock, who avoided it.

"Did you need anything else?"

"No."

I nodded, and stepped past the nurse. Molly only let go of my hand when we reached the stairs, and started peeling off our gloves and masks.

"So," I began, leaning toward Sherlock, "What've you got?"

He shrugged.

"You tell me; you're in the middle of it."

"How do you figure?"

Molly's eyes were glossy and intently focused. I read and _felt_ her concern. She reached to tap Sherlock's shoulder, to coax the answer. He turned sharply around, at the base of the staircase:

"There is a connection between _you_ , Davies, and Nurse Connor."

"What about Mary?"

We reached our preparation room, and shed the remainder of our kit.

"Well…?" Molly began to repeat my question. Sherlock was quickest in removing the gear, and tossed it carelessly in the general direction of a bin.

"The thread of the problem," he began, low and rushed, "is whether a man assumes coincidence or conspiracy."

John was greatly missed; I had grown accustomed to a certain balance on cases. Sherlock, on his own, was nearly impossible to talk to directly. The riddles, which John always shrugged off, weren't helping.

I leaned in, between Molly and Sherlock:

"What's the conspiracy?"

Hot air hit my face, as he gave a rushed sigh.

"Coincidence."

I rolled my eyes, and tried to remember what it was like doing cases with _just_ Sherlock. Of course; childish.

"I'm not here to play games, Sherlock," I waved my bandaged hand at him, "What's the _coincidence_?"

"Mary's death," he grunted, "The nurse is connected, but Mary is not."

"I could've done a—" Molly began, eager to take the blame.

"Mary was given at least _twice_ as much anesthesia as Connor was, while we were with her. _That_ is what killed her; it's the only solution."

He stepped from the room, leaving us in a cautions silence. After a moment of staring at one another, Molly and I simultaneously decided to follow him. We dashed into the hall.

"You interviewed the nurses," I said, when we caught up with him, "You talked to everyone who went anywhere near her."

His favourite thing to do, apparently, was sigh at us.

"I did not interview _John_."

Molly coughed, before speaking up:

"But John w—"

"He demanded the extra dose," he stopped walking, " _Stupid_ , I should've known!"

We reached the front entrance, and watched him shove the door open. I caught his arm, and he glared.

"You're _not_ telling John." I shook my head, which Molly mirrored. Her docile eyes were consoling, but far from apologetic.

He needed time to consider this, and muttered about 'normal' lives while he thought.

"I will," he said at last, "if he asks me."

Again, Sherlock threw the door open. This time, he stepped violently outside. Even his shadow demanded to be left alone.

"Who am I supposed to talk to about the connection?" I called after him.

He turned up the collar of his coat, and tucked his face inside. Because of this, his shouts were muffled.

"Your ex-wife, if you're still acquainted."

I turned and saw Molly, leaning into the open door. Her lips were barely parted, as usual.

Quickly, I returned to her. She immediately reached for my hand, and allowed the door to swing shut on its own. This was unusual; she was worried.

"You know what he means?"

I tucked my wrapped hand into my pocket, while she protected the other. I felt her pulse; she gripped my hand so tightly, encasing it in both of hers.

"Don't think I want to."

From the way she nodded, I knew she understood.

I didn't like the cold silence, trickling between us.

"You up for a long night?" I nudged her arm.

"What do you need?"

"We're gonna find _everything_ on _everyone_ that overlaps, between me, Connor, and Davies. And," I didn't even like using her name, "my wife."

Molly smiled, "I'll make coffee."


	14. Suppression

Mycroft’s eyes are horridly beady in every shade of light.

In the golden glow of the Baker Street kitchen, the great grooves beneath them were brashly emphasised.  Their owner turned to watch me, as I entered the room.  He would tell me to be less enthusiastic in climbing the stairs.  I would shush him.

“Your grip on the bannister is not usually so tight,” he said, before I could fully tuck my hand into my pocket.  The redness was due to the former gloves, but I would not explain it, nor would I let him realize his mistake.

I would use this same strategy in any resulting discussion with John.  I mustn’t tell him how Mary had died.  Been killed, rather.  I tried to stop thinking about it, and focused instead on the hook in Mycroft’s nose.

“And?” Mycroft continued, resting his head in one hand.  He understood my dazed glancing, and passed his fingers briefly across his nose.

“Your theory has not been disproved.”

“How very kind.”

John enjoyed watching us, leaning both elbows on the countertop and reaching to absently stir his tea.  I did not estimate his interference for at least another minute.  Mycroft would not bring up details; his whole life was a string of codes.

“It’s most unlike you, Sherlock, not to go on and _on_ about one of your cases.”

“But typical, with one of _your_ cases.”

“Girls,” ventured John.  A favourite of his.

With the intention of annoying me, Mycroft exhaled loudly, and finished his tea.  He set the mug purposefully on the counter, stood, and dusted himself off.

“Of course,” he said, “It’s much more… laborious… to speak with you, than Lestrade.”

He turned, briefly, and ducked his head.

“Goodnight, John.  Sleep well.” He stepped toward the door, and stopped to lean on his umbrella, “And the opposite to you, Little Brother.”

“Thank you,” John said, gentler than I did.

We did not speak further until the clattering amongst the stairs had ceased.  The closing of the front door was nearly inaudible, but the drawl of the Jaguar engine was not.  Mycroft has never been a proponent of understatement.

“So…” John drummed his fingers against the counter, “How’d it go?”

“Fine.”

“Find anything out?”

 _Yes._ This thought was safe, if kept ambiguous.

“Yes.”

“I’ve got that prescription for you,” he said slowly, producing it and waving it, “What’s that all about?”

_I’m not sure I should trust your dosages._

“Are y--?” I began.

_No, no… Shh._

“I told you.  Experiment.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.  Not important.”

“Sherlock.”

“It isn’t.”

He sighed, and resigned himself to a steady nod.

“There’s no reason for you not to tell me,” he decided, “You tried to drag me along, anyway.”

“We went to see a woman with an injury and infection similar to… to Graham’s, although hers was untreated.  I need to understand the effects of the antibiotic at different points in the bacterium’s life-cycle.”

“Well, how’s she connected?  I mean, she’s gotta be tied to _Greg_ somehow.”

_His wife.  Your wife.  She died b—_

“Small world.”

”What?” his single laugh was primarily uncomfortable. 

“She was in a somewhat questionable relationship with his ex-wife, several years before their marriage.”

John stepped out of the kitchen, and leaned back against his chair.  Where business was conducted.

_A somewhat familiar situation.  Is she trying to kill them, or has she missed on purpose?  Mary was… no, shh.  Shush, stop._

“I’m sure Gareth will have it figured out soon,” I proceeded, tossing one hand, “Mycroft has taken a particularly annoying liking to him.”

John shrugged.

“You’re not even gonna try?  Go on, who was the woman?  We can get it worked out on our own, I bet.”

“She’s a nurse there.  Molly introduced them, once.”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

“Obviously.”

“What’s her name?”

“John,” I said, reaching to catch his wrist as he fumbled for his laptop, “You won’t want me to tell you.”

He paused and parted his lips. The vein throbbed, against his temple.  I took my seat across from him, in an attempt to at least provide a calming visual landscape.

“What’s that supposed to mean?  Is this about M—?!”

_—ary_

“The nurse was present during Hamish’s birth,” I said.

“Mary’s death.”

“Yes.”

“So whoever’s trying to kill her, was responsible for Ma—”

_I hardly think so._

“I hardly think so."

_Distraction; say something else._

“ _What?!_ ” the throbbing sped.  He refused to blink.

_Too late.  The reaction time of a doctor and a soldier.  Oh, stupid, bloody stupid._

He leaned forward, and slapped my knee.  Hard.  He stared up at me.

“Don’t you lie to me; you know _exactly_ who did it.  How long have you known?"

_Unsure.  Desperate, as a side-effect of grief.  Repressed.  A learned and heavily-ritualised behaviour, after returning from Afghanistan._

“You don’t want me to tell you,” I repeated, softly.

“ _Who_!?”

“You’ll wake Hamish.”

The words were launched at me, more precisely than any bullet John had ever triggered.

“I don’t _care._ ”

I wished, momentarily, for Mrs Hudson’s presence.  She would be horrified, and drain John until he apologized for even ‘thinking such a thing.’  I heard the words in her voice, but saw no benefit in reenacting them.

“You _do_ care,” I told him, instead.  The message was mostly the same, “You care.  I promised not to tell you, for that very reason.”

“Promised whom, may I ask?” the words were ground up by his teeth.

“Lestrade.”

“Lestrade knows?”

_By now, I hope.  He can’t possibly be that oblivious._

“No.”

“You’re not making any sense."

_His words were calm.  Reciprocate them._

“Neither are you.”

Finally, he released his hold on my knee, and suffocated both armrests, instead.  He shook his head, sighed quietly, and crossed his legs.  The grip loosened, as did the knots in his throat.  He spoke:

“I don’t have to.”

“Oh?”

“You’re right,” he said, unable to construct the completion of his claim, “That was, um.  That a was a bit not good there, wasn’t it?”

My eyes sifted through the entirety of the room, trying not to spend too long on any particular feature of John’s.

_Three hours of sleep last night._

_Forgot to brush his teeth this morning._

_Drank Mrs Hudson’s coffee by mistake.  Spat it out, because of the sugar._

_Switched mugs but never apologized._

 “Well, a lot,” John concluded, tugging anxiously at his collar.

_Holds Hamish in exactly the same position each time he picks him up: the stain on the shoulder of all of his jumpers, the wrinkles in every cuff._

_Takes his ring off at work._

_Has not taken down the pictures of Hamish’s first ultrasound._

_Never will; pinned them to the calendar._

_Only reason he remembers to look at it every day._

“Of course I care,” John added, unaware that I had enough proof of this already, “Thank you.”

I paused, and blinked.

_Shh._

_No.  Go on._

“You’re welcome, John.”


	15. Confession

It only took us two pots of coffee to piece the thing together, Molly and I.

She mentioned that she was wearing vanilla-flavoured lip gloss, because it would 'go' with the coffee.

We set to work, stacking boxes on the dining table and cutting through their taped-over labels.  I had not finished unpacking, since moving in at Molly's place, and did not anticipate having any time until the case was over.  But, the case demanded the boxes, so we sorted through them.

The one labelled 'Study' was most important.  It was a collection of things from the only room I could really call my own.  This box held framed certificates - hastily pulled from the walls, partially-filled notepads - nicked from desk drawers at work, and dusty memorabilia from a decade of cases - brushed unceremoniously from the empty bookshelf.

Somewhere, likely at the bottom, rested books of photographs.  We did our best to stay on task while uncovering them, but Molly had a habit of finding my name, highlighted in newspaper articles, or my picture, even when it was blurry and stamped with coffee stains.

She gave a playful sigh, as I set my mug over a pre-existing ring of coffee, solely to bar a picture from my first high-profile case.  She was reaching to refill it, and wouldn't do so until I slid it way.  The soggy paper gave up and tore.  

"Was that the one with the lookalike?" she asked.

"At the museum," I grunted, "Yeah."

“You’ve always been good with serialized cases,” she added, setting her chin over her neatly laced fingers.  

“Kind of embarrassed about this one, then,” I told her.  That was the truth.  

She looked over my face for a few seconds, making the occasional, thoughtful ‘mmm’ at the back of her throat.

“Do you know what I think?”

I sipped my coffee, shook my head, and then tried to hide behind the rim of the mug.

“I think you’ve probably known, deep down, for awhile now.  You just didn’t want to.  It was too personal.”

The tone made me feel like I was back in my office at the Yard.  I was shaken from this upon trying to lean back in my chair; the wood creaked at me, when I expected the encouragement of my desk chair.

“Has Sherlock been giving you lessons in that sort of thing?”

Her smile was delicate, while she mumbled ‘wish,’ before changing her mind and saying, “My job requires me to be observant, and to handle all sorts of families in denial.”

I nodded.  That was enough of a diagnosis for now.

“You’re absolutely right.  And, in case I haven’t told you lately, you’re so so far above her.”

“I should hope so,” she said, with more of her newly-rationed strength, “I certainly haven’t cheated on you, then gone off trying to kill old flames.”

“I don’t think she’s trying to kill them, though,” I said, skimming some more recent case-notes, “Only one death, out of the cases we’ve encountered so far.  If she’d wanted them all dead, she could’ve done it.”

“Mmm,” Molly said again, rolling through several tones.

By our next collective cup of coffee, we had it clearly outlined, and ready to be drawn up into documents for my ex-wife’s arrest. 

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? Following chapters will be written in first-person POV, which I'm super excited for.  
> Hope you enjoyed it!


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